Follies Under The Banner
by LaughingWolf
Summary: The tale of Rauwin and company, as they battle the menace of lost memories, hoardes of bloodthirsty monsters, cruel gods and their priests, and skunky beer! Come take a look, you have Rauwin's personal invite! (that'll make more sense later)
1. Prologue

The click-clack of boot heels echoed throughout the high domed chamber, sounding out the rhythmic pacing of a woman deep in thought. Normally, her presence in this chamber would be accompanied by soft music of such exquisite quality that it had no rival in this or any realm known. Normally, she would walk the circle of this chamber, marveling, at length, at the minute detail in every carved marble column, the painstaking craftsmanship of the silver, gold, and mithril mosaic that covered the floor. She would stare up at the high domed ceiling for hours, watching the scene shift from dawn to dusk and back again. Day and night played out in mere hours, the moon chasing the sun like a lusty lover…or perhaps a mother trying in vain to protect an unruly son.  
  
The unforeseen pun made her laugh, the first in four long days. In times past, the Chamber of Sun and Moon was a place for relaxation, a place to forget the trials of one's day, and take pleasure in simpler things. Such times, however, seemed long forgotten now; much like the music she would enjoy here in those days. Perhaps it was all for the better, too many had chided her for her love of such music, the craft of old enemies.  
  
*"But that was then, and this is now,"* the voice of a young man came, unbidden in her mind, *"even the eldest among us must strain a tired memory to recall such events in full." * She smiled at the memory, despite the slight quiver of her lower lip, and a tear that slid down her silken cheek. In her mind, she responded as she had so many times before. *"Sweet child, though memory might be tired in some, as you say, the desperation of the time still rings true for those who lived it. Many of us here were young, as you are now, in the days of the Great Exodus, and it is the duty of the eldest to remind us what we fled from, so that the mistakes of the past would not repeat themselves tomorrow."*  
  
*"How come we don't make peace, mother?"* the young voice asked, just as it had the last time. *"The Teachers all say how the others don't have the benefit of long memory as we do. Maybe they've all forgotten to hunt us, and we can be friends!"* She laughed then, both in the memory and out loud.  
  
*"My darling son, who among us would undertake such a grand quest?"* she had regretted asking then, and even more so now.  
  
*"Well, maybe I could do it. I've always wanted to meet the Stout Ones beneath the mountain!"* The boy in her mind's eye puffed out his chest, his then scrawny arms tight to his sides and chin thrust out, trying for all the world to look the part of a proud soldier. Soft golden hair falling about his beautiful copper skinned face, and framing a pair of gleaming golden eyes.  
  
*"Perhaps you shall, someday."* She laughed. "Perhaps you shall." She cried, openly now, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed silently. So overtaken was she, by this reverie, that she did not even hear the ringing footsteps of her visitor coming to her comfort.  
  
"My Lady Airyastola…" the rest of his comment trailed off as the Lady wailed in despair and turned in a blur to cling to the man's chest.  
  
"Tell me you've found him, Rothar! Even…if…it…be a lie! Please…" the last was lost in a choking sob, as Rothar held his Lady's head to his chest with a large, yet very gentle hand. Twice he opened his mouth, only to close it again, unable to bring a comforting word to mind. He truly was not suited to comforting a saddened heart, though he had had much practice in the passing days. Finally, unable to think of anything fitting, he decided business was best. As a member of the Ruling Council, Lady Airyastola always appreciated getting straight to business, no matter what a grief stricken heart might say.  
  
"We've combed this, and every isle, my Lady. Every inch has been scoured by good and loyal men, but no sign of you son has been found." He said it as gently as he could, he too was over come by emotion; though where the mother felt sadness he was filled with anger. He hated losing a pupil, especially one with such promising skill with a sword, but what angered him above all was the lose of a child he cared for as a son. As Lady Airyastola hoped for the safe return of her son, Rothar feared the worst; his Lady was not without enemies.   
  
Airyastola pulled away from his chest, her sobbing slowed as she wiped at her tears with a silk handkerchief. She took a step away from Rothar, smoothing delicate hands down a simple dress of blue silk, a modest array of diamonds in a starburst pattern adorned the bodice surrounded by gold embroidery. She was a stunning beauty, even when grief stricken. Gold red hair fell in ringlets around her smooth milky-skinned face, over her shoulders, and down to the middle of her back. Of course being who, and what she was, her appearance was something that could be changed at a whim.   
  
Her tenderness coupled with the dainty façade she often took made many an enemy think less of her, the look in her eyes at that moment was anything but dainty or tender. Cold fire danced in her eyes, rising with her regained composure, as she settled a very commanding look on Rothar.  
  
"You say you have scoured every isle?" Her tone demanded a very detailed answer.  
  
Rothar drew himself to attention, all gestures of familiarity vanishing. He ceased being a friend in need, and on the instant became a soldier reporting to his Commander. His relief was palpable. In her current form, Rothar towered over the Lady Airyastola at over six and a half feet tall, yet in her presence he felt smaller than small. To others of his caste he was imposing, dark hair cut short stood at attention above two cold blue eyes that revielded no secrets, and a face scarred by battle. Leather creaked as his broad chest, protected by a mithril breastplate bearing Sun and Cloud sigil of House Golden Breeze, puffed out, strong arms thick with muscle held tight to his side. The hilt of a Greatsword extended over his left shoulder, a serpentine shape playing down the well-tooled leather grip ended in a terrible snarling many fanged lizards head. The blood spilled by that blade was legendary.  
  
After his own moment for composure Rothar answered. "Aye my Lady, every isle. Thunder Lake, Foresthome," he paused, drawing in a long, deep breath, "even the Molten Isle, my Lady."  
  
"What news from the Lady of Molten Isle?" The fire in her eyes grew, and was no long cold, but a white-hot living thing that threatened to consume the world if the news to come was not to her liking.  
  
"Lady Terrastur regrets to inform the Lady of House Golden Breeze that her son has not found his way to her isle, however if he does, she assures the Lady that he will be returned with all due haste to the waiting arms of a grateful mother." Rothar braced himself for the torrent of Airyastola's anger, but it did not come.   
  
She looked at him hard for a handful of moments then spoke. "The scent of things unsaid hangs heavy about you Rothar. What is it you fear to say?" Rothar did not believe that terrible flame could grow anymore without spilling forth, but indeed it did. It bade him tell all.  
  
"She also bids me, in all kindness, to remind you that when her own mate, Theramaximus, disappeared in the Exodus no effort was raised to seek him out. She also called me to remind you that her mate was the ruling male of her clan, and your son, with all due respect, is youngling of the half-blooded." Now he was sure her fury would explode outward and consume him as she flew in a screaming torrent of blood and ash to claw at the underbelly of Lady Terrastur. Even still, her temper held, though admittedly it took some visible effort. After a moment, she continued her previous fevered pacing, as if to burn off some of her rage through movement. After a long moment, she stopped in front of Rothar, who had not moved a hair's width.  
  
"There is more." It was not a question.  
  
Rothar steeled himself, then spoke the last. "She suggests that, since the Council has not moved to resolve such situations in the past, you take matters into your own hands, and begin the search anew…in other realms." The final three words were spoken in a near whisper, as if he feared others might hear.  
  
Lady Airyastola arched an eyebrow, then turned on her heel and strode to the open-air balcony beyond the carved marble columns. There she stood, hands on the railing, staring out over the landscape of the Jeweled Isle. Everywhere she looked, impossibly tall towers stood with expansive archways and carved columns, their domed tops covered in sparkling arrays of gems. Beyond them could be seen the sea, a perfect clear blue plane of rolling waves, glittering as if it too were covered in jewels. And many miles out from the shore stood the forever tall gray billowing fog that the stray pirates and other seafarers called Sky Fall. A fitting name to be sure, for it did look as though the heavens themselves fell here to touch the waters around the Many Isles. The Sky Fall was a shield, or at least she has thought so all her life, but now she agreed with her son, the Sky Fall was a cage!  
  
Rothar spent a good long time staring at the back of his Lady. He had no intention of interfering in her thought process after having seen the murder in her eyes. Airyastola had a temper true enough, but this was something truly unwholesome. Death itself might very well have run from such a sight. Well, perhaps that was an exaggeration, after all, he had survived that stare. Minutes ticked by, and Rothar deciding it prudent to council his Lady on the next course of action, strode to the railing beside Airyastola and spoke.  
  
"You know what she was implying by her words." He said as he mentally prepared himself for orders that could very well mean his death at the hands of the council.  
  
"All kindness and due respect indeed," she spat, "of course I know what she was implying. The thought had crossed my mind a time or two, but I dared not dwell on it. The crime of leaving these isles carries the sentence of death." The last sentence left her in a whisper, and with it, all anger fled her, only to be supplanted by the return of grief. She turned to regard Rothar with pleading eyes already beginning to well up with tears.  
  
"Strong magic has impeded our ability to locate him by means other than sight, and we have scoured everything this side of the Sky Fall." Having said that, Rothar knew what he must do next.  
  
"If he has indeed left these isles," Airyastola began, sounding much less like the ruling Lady of House Golden Breeze, and more like a lost child, "the magic that keeps him safe from detection will soon wear away, and my son will be found."  
  
"Better for him to be found by someone he knows, than by a stranger sent to kill him." Rothar replied.  
  
"I could never order one to perform such a task." She said, tears now flowing freely from her eyes only to fall heavy from her chin.  
  
"Aye, such a dangerous endeavor must needs a volunteer. One who loves the boy as much as you do. Though you could never know such an individual by name, lest his fate become your own." Rothar wiped away at his Lady's tears with one gentle gloved finger before continuing. "I must take my leave, my Lady, there is still the business of finding your son. It is taxing work, so I do not expect I shall see you for some time, but I will send my lieutenant to report to you."  
  
"Thank you." was all she could manage.   
  
Rothar saluted his Lady and, turning on his heel, walked out of the Chamber of Sun and Moon for the last time. Lady Airyastola stood facing the sea once more, delivering a prayer to the Scaled Lord.  
  
*"Lord lend your strength to my champion, Rothar, as he leaves the protection of this place for the realms of men, and lead him safely to my son, Rauwin, who may already be there."*  
  
So engrossed in prayer was she, that she never heard the breastplate bearing her house sigil fall to the silver, gold, and mithril mosaic…she didn't need to. 


	2. Chapter One: Catch of the Day

***Author's Note*** it's been a long time for sure, but finally the long awaited (by some), possibly long forgotten (by others), and most likely unnoticed (by most), yet very deserving (in my humble opinion) "Second" Chapter has arrived! *YAY* I know my description said something about humor…and if not it at least implied it. It's in there somewhere I promise you, if not terribly obvious. But if you don't find it do not fret, it will become more blatant and obnoxious as time goes by. EireCat and Craeft, you can stop your damn whining now!

Chapter One: Catch of the Day

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In which, a half-broke fisherman finds a half-sunken treasure, and an aged innkeeper laments the passage of time…

Lost. His guide left him some time ago, when the wind began to whip in cold blasts, and the sky turned dark. He said he'd be back, but that seemed to be ages ago. Now the wind has grown cold, rain hammers him mercilessly from an angry sky, and best of all, jagged lightning thrusts from the sky to the waters below, leaving in it wake a white-purple after image that nearly blinds him. His guide said it was too soon, but maybe he should seek land, and shelter, just until the storm lets up, then he can be on his way again. But where is the land? It's so hard to see, between the blinding rain and crashing lightning, he'd be lucky to see a mountainside in this-there! A light! It's a ways off, but lights must mean land.

Pain burns throughout his body and instant before the tell-tale crash and rumble of a lightning strike. The brilliance blinds, leaving only white and purple motes dancing in his vision. The boy tries to continue on in vain, trying to reach that light that spoke of salvation. It isn't until he feels the cold shock of water that he realizes, he'll never make it. 

*****

It had been a bad season for Jarl Tasslebrook and his crew, but this day was by far the worst. It is a daring fool that brings a ship out to the edge of the Boiling Sea, especially when all signs point to foul weather, and the captain of the She-Drake was just that. Of course, he was nearly broke as well, and money troubles had made many a fool more daring than he. Despite his hopes for one final catch that might bring some silver to a poor fisherman's pocket, he bellowed orders to bring the ship about and make the return trip home. His only hope now was to not dash the Drake against the docks while trying to bring her in.

A few of the men exclaimed in loud curses, barely rising over the din of thundering waves, pounding rain, and the creak of mooring lines. Jarl turned to look where the men were pointing in time to see a drake, smaller than some he'd seen, but large enough in its own right, flying low over the water only to be struck by lightning and hurl limply to the waves some distance ahead of the ship. 

"It might be not all is lost Cap'n," one of the deckhands called, "if we can snare its carcass. I know a man or two that'd pay a good coin or two for a hide from a beastie like that'n" 

"Nay," Jarl replied, " 'tis a terrible omen when the saints strike such a proud creature from the skies. Let us pray it is no portent of our own fate." With that, he whispered a hasty prayer to Saint Luther, patron of travelers and merchants, and from time to time stubborn sea-tossed fisherman hard on their luck. 

The She-Drake plunged ahead along the treacherous course home. Some of the men were already talking about the warm meals, and willing women waiting for them at port. Jarl couldn't help thinking about fresh baked bread, and good thick stew himself, and some of Branen's home brewed ale. He couldn't think of a single woman there that would be willing to share a bed with him, but he scarcely had the coin for the meal and beer. Maybe that lovely young lass would be there at the Three Crowns Inn when he arrived, singing that song about hedgehogs and whiskey he liked so well. The singing maid with the silver eyes, he was of half a mind to rename his ship after her, if his luck kept running as it was. She was a maid as lovely as the sunrise, yet as rough as the seas today, a lot like his last wife. Perhaps if he skipped the meal and offered her his coin instead she would-

"Man in the water!" came the bellowing cry that broke Jarl's reverie. Shaking his head to clear it of his last lonely thoughts, Jarl rushed over to the railing where the cry had been raised. Sure enough, as he looked overboard there was a man floating face down in sea, with a terrible burn marring a well muscled back. Several of the deckhands were staring, mouths gaping down at the floating man, not sure exactly what to do.

"Well, what are you waiting for men," Jarl shouted over the storm, "Haul 'im up! Or has the poor season caused yer sea soaked brains to forget how to bring in a catch?"

"B -But sir, this is where that drake shoulda been." One toothless crewman stammered. "An there aint no wreckage to say he come off another ship."

"An I don't see no drake neither, just a half drown man, an a toothless sea-dog that's gonna join 'im unless he grabs a pole an hauls that man on deck!" With that the crew hastily jumped to action, grabbing long poles meant for large catches to hook the bedraggled man under the arms and drag him to safety.

The man was rather large, his body thick with muscle, but the men managed to get him aboard without too much difficulty. He hit the deck in a boneless heap, sodden gold hair clinging to his face concealing it from view. The captain was instantly on his knees, pushing the hair out of the man's face, and putting an ear close, feeling for an escaping breath. When it was apparent that he wasn't breathing, Jarl began pushing on the man's chest, trying to press the water out of his lungs to make room for air. The man coughed and tried to breathe, but it came out in a gurgle. The captain rolled him onto his side, pounding on his back to help him retch out the sea he had been trying to drink in full. After a moment, it seemed he had emptied a bucket full of salty water onto the deck planks of the She-Drake, though it made no real difference in the rain, and rolled onto his back once again.

"Can you speak, boy?" Jarl shouted to the man.

"That HURT!" he said, and looked as if he was going to say more, but then went slack, unconscious.

"Looks like yer gonna live, son." The captain laughed, as they pulled closer to docks. Maybe that silver-eyed lass would never go for a near broke, sea-tossed, old fishing boat captain, but she just might go for a hero. Yeah, some women just couldn't resist those hero-types.

*****

It seemed like ages had passed in the dark place of dreamless sleep. Alone in the emptiness, he felt strangely exposed, as if he stood naked before the eyes of a crowd. But there was no crowd, only darkness deeper than any well. He wasn't even sure there was a _him _present to be naked, so to speak, at least there was none that he could see. He was dimly aware of the sound of waves hitting…well, something, and for some unknown reason that thought filled him with dread. He tried to speak, not expecting a response, but strangely curious if he voice would echo in this void. No sounds escaped, and he wasn't all together certain that his lips even moved. Numerous attempts to pass a hand in front of his face, or touch his nose likewise failed. One thing became certain, which eventually called a second thought to mind, and more quickly a third: 

__

Well, I can't move or speak…but damn, my nose itches. If this goes on for much longer, I'm going to go insane!

Then, like the last runner in a foot race, came a fourth:

_What if I already am?_

It was impossible for him to tell the passage of time, mostly because of the boredom induced by counting for too long, but after a time the sounds of the sea disappeared. The sudden loss of noise caused panic to rise, as it seemed that his last tenuous connection to something outside of himself had been severed. Now he was truly alone. 

He tried to fight it, if there even was an _it _to fight. His first instincts lead him to try lashing out with arms and legs and wings.

_Wings?_

He dismissed the thought as he remembered that his body would not respond. In a more desperate measure, he tried to focus his will, cutting out any stray, distracting thoughts as he called to mind the sound of the waves. The instant he decided to shut out other thoughts seemed to be the exact time they chose surface. Images only the eyes of memory can see flashed in his head. A woman, strong and beautiful, with outstretched arms that promised comfort and safety. The face of scarred teacher, with a stern look on his face, but amusement in his eyes. An angry, gray, storm-tossed sea, and a thousand other things danced away into the dark. The harder he fought to bring one back, the faster the others faded, and the more tired he became. Thoughts came slower now, and it was impossible for him to hold onto any one for long, like sand falling between fingers.

_So this is what death is like? _is the thought that came to him. Then one more, something someone had said to him, either in cruelty or as a jest, he wasn't sure: _But, I'm too stupid to die?_

****

Then there was nothing.

*****

Heavy as an ox. That's the only expression for it that came to Branen Casterly's mind as he the boy up the stairs. He must have weighed twice what Branen did at his age, and Branen was a strapping lad to be sure, in his youth. Of course, in the years since then his hair had thinned considerably, and had lost the amber color that had attracted the eye of more than a few ladies. It seemed to him that he must have gained ten pounds for every hair he lost, and finely toned muscles had begun to grow slack. It was a chore moving heavy casks of his home brew up that short ladder from the cellar, and this boy was surely as heavy as two barrels or more, not to mention ten times as awkward. As the sweat gathered on his brow and his breath grew ragged, he paused at the first landing for a rest, leaning his weight against wood paneled wall.

"That boy isn't going to carry himself up them stairs, Bran!" came a familiar bellow from the common room below.

_You don't say? I'd sure like to see you wrestle this brute up two flights of stairs, you wrinkled sack of venom! _he thought to himself.

"Yes wife." was all he said, as he pushed away from the wall with some effort and continued moving. He scarcely had the breath to say that much, at least that was the justification for not saying what was really on his mind.

_But he is a brute to be sure. More than six feet tall, and all hard muscle I'm willing to wager. Too bad this isn't Cadavaan. I hear those devils pay real gold, and lots of it, for boys like this in the slave pits. _

He cursed himself, silently, for even having such a thought, and promised the All-Father, Kaladine, that he'd make penance. That is, of course, if he didn't have a more creative idea in mind, such as a few days of excruciating back pain.

__

After one more stair, and a few rest stops far from the vigilance of Mrs. Casterly, Branen had the boy laid down. He sat heavily in a creaking bedside chair, chest heaving, and mopped his sweat-soaked forehead with his apron.

"AHEM!" came her voice from the door, startling him to the point that he thought the rickety chair would give way under the force of him jerking up right.

"Well, now that you're awake and well rested you can get your self down to the kitchen and bring me up wash tub and some clean towels. And while you're down there, fetch some tea and honey. Don't add the honey yourself, mind, you'll just screw it up. Bring me the whole jar. And be quick about it, by the look of things this poor boy hasn't eaten in days!" She made a hurrying gesture with a towel as she moved to the bed, checking the burns on the boys body.

__

"Best call on Micah when you're done," she called as Branen lumbered out into the hall, "these burns look pretty bad."

__

"Yes wife." he replied tiredly, though those weren't the only words that occurred to him to say.

__

Shaking his head as he moved down the stairs, Branen couldn't help but recall a time when Armina had been a lot less bossy. Hell, when they first met she was down right pleasant, sweet even. She was always a bit headstrong, but that was half the appeal. The prettiest farm girl in the small farm town of Gale, far from the coast near the heart of Kalidesh. It seemed like a lifetime ago, and maybe it was, if thirty years are all a person is good for. She was lovely then, and be truthful she was still lovely now, but some of that was lost in her unwavering sternness. Sure she was tall, with skin softer than a lot of women half her age, and long raven black hair with only the slightest touches of gray, her eyes were still the same shade of emerald they had always been, but these days she rarely smiled. That is what he missed the most. He could deal with her cutting sarcasm, and scathing tongue, but he fell in love with that smile. For that one part of her to be missing, was as if she had died, and some angry old harpy full of spite came to take her place.

__

Of course, he couldn't blame her, not after what had happened. A piece of him had died away too. Twenty years ago, he never would have let her taunting go unchallenged, but in the passage of time he had lost his will to fight. He lost that part of him in the same instant that he lost his only son. His head swam with all the doubts he had carried from that day to today. If only he had turned back when the sun fell, or if he had brought Jance with him, instead of telling him he was too young to join the hunt. He was such a small boy, but wanted so much to be a man, just like his father. What would he say if he saw his father now? Would he still want to be the man Branen had become? If only his eye for tracks had been a little sharper, he might have noticed the wolf had doubled back before hearing his son's strangled cry.

__

A dozen or more things he could have done differently might have saved his son, might have saved Armina from the woman she's become. The very least he could have done was killed the wolf that stole his family from him, but even then the fight had gone from him. From then to now it has been the same, Armina never smiles, Branen never fights, and together they are miserable.

__

It shouldn't be this way, I should march up there right now and tell that woman exactly what I think of her. I'll tell that cow to shut her mouth, and if she doesn't like the way I do things she can damn well do them her damn self! he thought to himself, coming to a stop at the bottom of the stairs.

__

And maybe, just maybe, if I can find the strength to stand up for myself, she can find the strength to stop blaming herself for Jance's death, and she can learn to smile that sweet smile again. It was a thought he had had a hundred times before, but he just shook his head, and continued walking to the kitchen.

__

Tomorrow, he thought to himself, as he had a hundred times before, _I'll tell her off tomorrow. _


	3. Chapter Two: Awake and Dreaming

Chapter Two: Awake and Dreaming

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In which, names are shared, a story is told, and fears arise.

__

I told you it was too far to travel, but you insisted on making the journey alone. Most of the islands are just too far apart for someone as young as you to go back and forth without assistance. I swear to you, one day that thick head of yours is going to get you into such trouble as I will not be able to help you out from, my sweet and foolish little boy.

My sweet, sweet Rauwin…

The sudden comprehension of thought startled him so that he shot immediately to a sitting position, from the feathery bed in which he lay. In that same instant he realized his mistake as the room swam before his eyes, unrecognizable as anything other than a multi-colored blur, and pain stabbed searing daggers into his head from all directions. Clutching his head between his hands, he let out a sharp but strangled cry of pain, and fell sideways onto the bed. Or at least, he had been aiming for the bed. Confused by the swirl of shapes and colors, he landed heavily on the wood plank floor.

Ever so slowly, as the room began to resolve into its true form, the pain receded, leaving him panting in relief, his mouth dry. Just as slowly, he began to look around the room, taking in the old wood paneling. A small closet, set into the wall on his left, stood open with a large jacket hanging from a hook. To his right was the bed he had fallen out of, a large lumpy feather mattress and a tangle of thread bare linen sheets, that haphazardly covered his naked form. The revelation of his nudity made him blush as his gaze continued to wander beyond the bed to the wooden chair and table, with it's cracked wash basin, which sat in front of an open window on the opposite side, and the figure of a woman standing in the doorway.

Noticing her for the first time he froze, eyes barely above the level of the bed. The muscles in his arms and legs tensed, ready for immediate action, even if his head disagreed. Minutes passed in silence, as neither he nor the tall slender figure by the door moved. 

"I suppose you must be hungry." she said at last, taking a tentative step away from the door further into the room. Her voice was soft and low, her movements slow and cautious, as if she were approaching a small rabbit in the forest, afraid that it might flee. He still did not move. Though she was taking every measure not to startle him, he felt a fear he could not place. Some primal, or perhaps instinctual reaction sang throughout him, and yet at the same time he felt as if that were wrong.

A dozen questions raced through his mind, and at the prospect of food his stomach began rumble. More time passed in silence, and the woman's calm demeanor started to shift closer to apprehension, then fear. He smelled the change in her mood well before the change in her face, and he instantly felt embarrassed and apologetic. Here he was cowering behind a bed, shielded from the nose down, and she was just as afraid of him as he of her. Granted she stood tall for a woman, but he knew he stood much taller. His arms must have been three, even four times as thick as hers, and it occurred to him that he knew just how to strike her to keep her from ever getting up again.

That last thought must have registered in his eyes somehow, because the scent of fear rolled off the woman in waves, and the pulse in her throat visibly quickened. Out of shame he quickly tried to find something to say, something to break the silence and make it known that he meant this woman no harm. He plucked at the first thing that came to mind.

"I don't know where I am." he croaked, still not emerging from behind the bed, and realizing that his throat was still terribly dry. It felt as if he'd been eating sand.

The scent of fear disappeared almost instantly, and was replaced by pity, as tears welled up in the woman's eyes. His eyes narrowed sullenly, and he focused them on the bed before him, not wanting her to see his embarrassment. How timid he must look, like a lost child who missed his mother. But he was lost, wasn't he?

"Don't worry child," she said in almost a quiet giggle, closing the distance between door and bed. He wondered how much of that laugh was relief and how much of it was for the pathetic "child" on the floor. "You're on the shores of Kalidesh. Kelebrind to be exact. Jarl and his men plucked you, naked as a babe, out of the sea half a week ago, and brought you here. What were you doing out in that storm anyhow? Are you a fisherman?" She sat on the bed, pulling a bundle of linen off of the wooden chair and into her lap.

"Storm?" he asked curiously. In his mind's eye he saw a blinding flash of light, and shook his head vigorously to banish the thought, renewing dizziness and pain. "Fisherman? I-I'm not-" he tried to speak through teeth gritted against the pain, then stopped, taking in deep relaxing breaths. The hurt left him more quickly this time, and he began again. "I'm no fisherman." he said at last, but then realized that he wasn't quite sure if he was or not.

"Well if you're no fisherman, then what else would you be, swimming around that far from shore in the middle of a storm, other than a fool of course." she said, patting the bed with her hand, beckoning him to sit.

"Well, I'm-" he stopped as he was picking himself up of the floor. He concentrated as best he could, but try as he might, he could not call anything to mind regarding profession or who he was otherwise. Lost in thought he let the sheet fall absently as he continued. "I-I don't know what I am."

"One thing's for certain, you're a boy for sure." the woman said, gesturing towards his exposed midsection. Remembering the dropped sheet at last, he hurriedly snatched up one of the tangled bed sheets, blushing as he rushed to cover his manhood. She laughed then, muffled at first as if she were trying to hold it back until she could not contain it any longer. She laughed the way birds sang, and as lovely as she was, the smile on her face made her radiant. But it ended almost as quickly as it began.

She sighed almost sadly, her eyes glistened with the beginnings of tears that he was certain were from the laughing. She looked far away, as if in another time and place.

"I haven't laughed like that since…" she said to no one in particular, then turned to the boy wrapped in his sheet. "Well, not in a very long time." She looked solemn now, and somehow more stern. Eyeing him up and down she said, "You'll be wanting some clothes I imagine." She placed the bundle on the bed as she stood up, smoothing out her apron and with it the mirth she had displayed moments before.

"Thank you." he said quietly, not sure what he had just seen. As she walked away, he felt as if he should say more. Something about their interaction had saddened her, and he desperately wanted to set that aright. "What's your name?" he blurted as she reached the door.

"Armina, Armina Casterly." she said half turning from the hall. "What's yours?"

Panic rose in him again. He had forgotten everything else, now his name was out of reach as well. He was all but overcome by despair, every detail about him was a mystery even to himself. He didn't know who or where he was, or why he was there in the first place. He had no idea where he came from or what to do. It just wasn't right, it wasn't fair, it wasn't-

__

My sweet, sweet…

"Rauwin?" he wasn't asking himself, so much as the half formed memory in his head.

"It's a pleasure to meet you Rauwin. Branen will bring your meal up shortly." And with that, she left.

In the near silence of the empty room, the only sound being that of Mistress Casterly's retreating footsteps, Rauwin dressed himself with the clothes that had been provided. He was grateful for the heavy fabric of the red jacket, which he took from the closet. In the shock of the moment he hadn't realized how chilly the night air had become. After donning his new clothes he sat down in the creaking chair looking out the open window beside the bed.

The first sight to catch his eye was the sea, immense and surging, yet much more calm than he had expected…though to have expectations of a sea he had not seen before did strike him as odd. Still, in its relative calm, the sight of the dark waters evoked in Rauwin a confusing, yet all too real, feeling of dread. He quickly cast his eyes to the city below. 

Closer to the sea than he would have liked to gaze, sat a grouping of docks, which had a treacherous look to them, no doubt only enhanced by the mantle of a starless night. Among the loose planks and dubiously erected supports, there stood ships of all shapes, sizes, and states of disrepair. These docks, like wooden fingers grasping at the waves, continued into the west almost farther than he could see from his window-seat. Be it distance or dark, the details of the furthest structures and their silent sentinels were difficult to make out, yet it seemed that the westernmost docks had experienced a better level of care than the rest, and were home to prouder and sturdier vessels than those before him. The progression seemed to mark the passage of time and the expansion of this booming port from its days as a humble fishing village.

Further inland, like a wood and stone buffer between him and his enemy, the sea, stood a wide array buildings. Like the docks, these structures seemed to increase in grandeur in the west, as wood and pitch gave way to stone and white wash, and lanterns adorned many more cobbled streets than the gravel paths below. Despite the lack of light, Rauwin was able to make out the shapes of figures moving along the hard beaten paths between buildings just beyond the window. Like children at play, men laughing raucously chased women who let out breathy teasing giggles, then disappeared into the solitude of some darkened alley. The sounds that followed shortly thereafter made the heat rise in his face, and he shyly directed his attention elsewhere.

Gazing out into this sleeping city, Rauwin's mind soon began to wander. Nothing about this place seemed familiar to him, save for the curious foreboding he felt for the sea. If he was a citizen of this port he should remember, shouldn't he? If he was not, then where was he from, and why did he come here? As his mind searched for answers it did not have, Rauwin grew tired.

"Kelebrind…" he said with a yawn, testing the way the name, so new to him, rolled off his tongue. "Kelebrind. Could this be my home?" 

Resting his head on his arms, folded atop the windowsill, Rauwin watched this strange city, with its patch-work buildings and gently bobbing ships, and soon fell asleep.

***** 

Armina Casterly was out of breath before she even set foot on the stairs. There was something decidedly strange about that boy. She recalled the moment that his eyes had changed, like a wolf who had cornered its prey and was preparing to make the kill. It sent a shiver up her back, a tingle that stood the hair of the back of her neck on end. She rubbed her arms vigorously to chase away a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. The strangest thing about the encounter was how, just as quickly, the predatory look became something else entirely, something timid and lost. And when he finally spoke, it was with a boyishness that had caught her completely off guard. She hadn't expected such tones of hopelessness from someone who, only moments before, appeared ready to strike her down. In spite of all that, she had taken an instant liking to the boy, which she likewise was unprepared for. 

Armina had wanted to be stern with him, to demand how he intended to pay for the free care she and her husband had provided for him; to tell him that since he was finally awake he could either pay for the room he had taken up for the past four days or move on. But she couldn't. Saints help her, she couldn't bring herself to be angry with the boy, not while he reminder her so much of her own son.

Warm tears slid down her cheek and fell from her chin before Armina even realized she was crying. Down the hall, floor boards creaked under foot, and she assumed that meant that the boy, Rauwin he had called himself, was dressing. Hastily she wiped the tears from her face, and continued moving down the stairs, afraid that if she lingered the sounds of her sobbing might draw him out of the room. She wasn't ready to face him just yet, she needed time to collect herself, time to see him as someone other than her long dead son. 

Before finishing her flight to the bottom of the stairs, she took a moment to compose herself, fixing a fresh scowl on her face so her husband would have no cause to think something might be amiss. Not that he would say anything of course. Bran seldom seemed to care about anything at all. She thought that it may be an affect of her harshness towards him, but she was only being harsh in the hopes that it would bring out some emotion in him. No, it was clear that the only emotions he felt at all were reserved for the silver-eyed strumpet who nightly shook her parts for any dirty old man with an unbent copper to throw. With that thought, Armina felt her anger rising, and she began feeling altogether better. The heat of anger gave her something real to cling to, and brought her back to her senses, for the most part anyway. Feeling slightly refreshed, she stormed off across the floor of the common room to the kitchen behind the bar.

She threw open the swinging door, banging it against a side table with an audible clatter. Branen sat at another table, near the cooling kettles that held the remnants of the evening's stew, across from him was Jarl Tasslebrook. Both had full frosty mugs before them, and cards in hand. Bran looked confusedly at his cards, scratching his balding dome, while Jarl's face transformed from smug to wary as he spied Armina from the corner of his eye. Beyond Jarl's expression, neither of them seemed particularly moved by Armina's noisy entrance.

"So, you say one of your boys spied a drake just before you picked our boy out of the water." Bran said, probably in hopes that he could draw his opponent off his game with idle chatter.

"Mm-hm." was Jarl's only response, still watching the innkeeper's wife as she stalked over to loom above her seated husband.

"And it was a gold one you say, wings and all? A queer sight to be sure, 'specially that far out. From the telling, you wouldn't think they'd stray too far from their nests in the mountains…" he trailed off, concentrating deeper on his cards, unaware of the shadow that grew over him.

"The skin's worth a fortune, made o' solid gold if you believe the stories. An they say they be guardin' treasures of their own up in them mountains. That's what makes 'em so fierce…you know…territorial like." Jarl leaned back in his chair in a vain attempt to separate himself from the oncoming melee as much as possible.

"You don't say," Bran said, remaining oblivious to the impending danger. "I have half a mind to go up there and-" a sudden epiphany lit his face as he finally deciphered the trail to victory that the cards held for him. "Oh-ho I have you now you sea-brained old coot! Read 'em and weep, Queens high over-" as he set the cards on the table, the rest of his victorious declaration was cut off by a high-pitched yelp, his wife's fist firmly pinning his fingers and winning hand to the table.

"If you had half a brain at all you'd notice your wife standing before you, and, rather than prattling on to this dirty sea-biscuit about your absurd notions of drake slaying, you'd be seeing to what she wants you to do!" Armina shouted.

Jarl sank deeper into his seat, trying for all the world to disappear, contemplating the risks involved in reaching for his mug. In the end he thought better of it, remembering something he had heard in a bards tale about one of those woodsmen; that when confronted with a dangerous beast it was better to stand perfectly still making no sudden movements that may further attract its attention.

"I'm sorry, wife," Bran said, pulling his finger from beneath her iron fist, flexing them unconsciously, checking for broken knuckles. "what was it you wanted me to do."

"Well, since I have your attention all of a sudden, _our boy_ is finally awake and probably hungrier than a dog in the shacks at the height of winter. I suggest you take a bowl of stew up to him, not too big mind you. He's taken up quite enough of our _hospitality_ already. And when you're done with that, you can haul a few more barrels up from the cellar. I won't have those dirty fish-smelling brutes hanging on me one more night, asking why their cups are empty. And if its such a chore for you, have your good friend Master Tasslebrook help you. Its the least he could do to earn all he drinks up for free after we close down for the night.

And another thing: don't go entertaining any strange ideas about us putting up this boy for any longer than we have to. Need I remind you that the last _poor _soul you catered to ran off with almost a week's worth of earnings? I don't think the girls will be so forgiving if they have to go without pay a second time, I know I won't!"

"Yes wife." was all he said, as he got up from his seat gingerly cradling his injured hand. Armina turned to keep Bran fixed with her glare while he moved to the kettles and began lighting the fire under one of the stew pots. With Armina's back to him, Jarl seized his only opportunity to grab up his ale, and sipped it quietly.

Long minutes passed in silence as Branen fanned the flames, bringing the stew to a boil. Portioning out a bowl and a half loaf of hard bread, he set the food on a tray with a mug of his home brew and began walking for the door.

"Honestly, Branen Casterly," Armina muttered angrily as he pushed the door open. "you think even a man of your age would be able to see his own wife standing before him. I swear you grow more scatterbrained by the day!"

"Yes wife." was all he said as the door swung shut behind him. With him out of sight, Armina sighed tiredly and turned her attention to the stack of dishes waiting to be washed. Behind her, Jarl cleared his throat and jumped when she whirled on her heels to face him. Clutching his hat, turning the rumpled fabric nervously in his hands, he swallowed hard. He opened his mouth twice to speak, but, not quite knowing how to begin, he closed it and tried to start over again. It was obvious that something was bothering him.

"What is it you want to say, Jarl?" she tried to say it sweetly, but the frustration she felt was much more evident in her tone. Nonetheless, Jarl was inspired to speak.

"Well ma'am, I uh, I dint wanna say this to yer husband, you know how he can be with crazy ideals n' all. Well, you see…it's about the day we fished yer boy-"

"Rauwin." she broke in, suddenly feeling the weight of the day falling in on her. "He said his name was Rauwin. And he's not my boy."

"Uh-right, Rauwin. Anyhoo, something' 'bout the day we fished him outta the sea, well, it jus aint sittin' right with the boys an me." he paused to clear his throat, which was suddenly dry, and took a long pull from his mug. Armina looked on with an expression that told how dangerous it was to keep her from her work any longer than necessary. Jarl continued on in a rush. "Y'see me an' the boys been recountin' the day, an' with the drake that were struck by lightning, an' where we found, uh, Rauwin…well, he was right about where the drake shoulda been. Some o' the boys think, an' even though its queer, I'm inclined to agree with 'em, think that maybe this drake…well, that he turned into that boy upstairs. Like a were-woof, or somthin' like it…" finished, he stood there, turning his hat over in his hands, as Armina stood staring at him like he had sprouted a second head, one eyebrow climbing to the middle of her forehead She let out an exasperated sigh, and shook her head.

"Well, I tell you what Master Tasslebrook; I'll be looking out at the first sight of the full moon. If that boy sprouts wings, scales or a tail you'll be the first person I inform. That is, after my no-good lazy husband slays the beast and claims its treasure, making us rich beyond measure and taking us far far away from this rundown heap of an inn."

This time Jarl shook his head, though he had expect such a response for his concern. He shoved the hat onto his head and turned towards the door, turning back before stepping beyond the threshold.

"Jus' remember what I said, ma'am," he muttered hoarsely "There're stranger things in this world than you or I've ever seen and, saints willing, will ever see." With that, he turned and walked out of the kitchen.

Armina tried to dismiss what he had said, but something in his tone took her back to that look in Rauwin's eyes, like the eye's of a wolf. She shivered despite herself, and as she went to the wash-tub, scrubbing the dishes, she couldn't help but wonder if there wasn't something to the fears of the washed up old fisherman.


End file.
